Shortfall: Redux
by Ravager Zero
Summary: Titanfall AU with characters based off Frozen. Elizabeth Stroud fights for the IMC, but after a Militia raid in the Yuma system, she's starting to have second thoughts. Based on the campaign storyline in the game, with additional world building on the side. Rated M for violence and coarse language. Disclaimer: Frozen belongs to Disney; Titanfall to Respawn Entertainment. [Rewrite]
1. Prelude to War

**AN:** Inspired by the critique/AMA I had on reddit for this story, I've decided that I will be doing a rewrite, following the game's background more closely, delving into a little more detail, and separating combat and non-combat chapters.

* * *

Her armour gone, AI screaming at her to eject, Sergeant Elizabeth Stroud reached down and yanked on the ejection handle as a massive steel fist crashed through the cockpit of her Titan. There was a single moment of sheer terror as that fist closed around her, crushing her body to a bloody paste. Her mind fled, ripped out of her body by the Ripcord system, the Pull taking her back to orbit, and the _Sentinel_. In that moment outside of time she heard a voice.

"Elsa…"

Her father's voice, pleading with her to stay. She tried to turn, pulling herself deeper into the darkness, but light filled her eyes and she fell to the floor of the clone bay. Fell through the floor, back into darkness—one which she couldn't escape from; one which dragged her down like thick treacle. Choking, she heard nothing in this darkness, far more terrifying than any of her many deaths in combat. This would be her end, and her father would never know. She would never hear his voice again.

She woke with a start, almost banging her head against the roof above her bunk. Rolling awkwardly on her side, she fumbled around for her tablet, flicking through old files. She paused at the picture of her father, gently touching the screen. She blinked away tears. _I still miss you_. The message icon in the corner of the screen blinked for attention. She brought up the app.

IMS/Sen/Spyglass»Pilot Stroud, you appear to be in distress.

Elsa frowned, aware that the AI was probably watching her every move, analyzing her expression.

IMS/Sen/PltStroud»A nightmare.  
IMS/Sen/Spyglass»You accessed [this] image. Your father.  
IMS/Sen/PltStroud»The nightmare.  
IMS/Sen/Spyglass»Query: Suppressed memory from the Outpost 084 incident?  
IMS/Sen/PltStroud»Combat. Ripcord Pull malfunction.  
IMS/Sen/Spyglass»… … …  
IMS/Sen/Spyglass»Backups for your war and cosmetic clones are fully up to date.  
IMS/Sen/Spyglass»Recommending further investigation. Accept/Decline/Delay?

Elsa sighed, trying to get comfortable again. She just wanted to get some more sleep, however much of the night cycle was left. She powered down the tablet. She knew Spyglass's internal records would log that as 'Delay'. Closing her eyes, she pulled the blankets higher, past her shoulders. The EC never was quite right in her cabin for some reason. That, or Laski had turned it down again.

* * *

Late in the morning the briefing came through—just as Elsa was jogging back to her cabin from running her usual calisthenics routine. Graves's deep baritone sounded out over the ship's intercom.

"All personnel, this is Vice Admiral Graves. We have a rare opportunity to destroy an entire Militia fleet." The fleet they had been chasing down for the past six months, one of the last remaining concentrations of Militia ships anywhere on the Frontier.

"We know these terrorists are almost out of fuel, but desperation will make them unpredictable." Just like that first attack, four years ago, on Outpost 084. "Do _not_ underestimate them." After that strike, no one was going to underestimate what the Militia could do. With only three ships they had destroyed one of the most heavily defended IMC installations on the frontier. One her father had been stationed on. Graves was still talking. "They can't run far, and will most likely hit a refuelling facility in the next few hours. Spyglass will fill you in."

The AI's voice was cold and mechanical, all business. "Pilots, you will be assigned to dropships to cover all potential targets in the Yuma system. A heavy patrol rotation will be maintained at all sites. At the first sign of Militia forces you will deploy to the ground and ensure that the air defense turrets remain online."

Graves came back with one final comment. "You are cleared weapons free for this operation. Stay vigilant. Graves out."

Elsa moved a little faster, not quite running to her cabin. The one she shared with Duke Laski. When she entered she found him laid out on the lower bunk, his cosmetic clone's ridiculous moustache drooping slightly at the ends. He'd already been Pulled to a war clone. There wasn't time to shower, and she hated the thought of climbing on to her bunk dirty. Instead, she sat against the wall, trying to find a relaxing position. Then she activated a manual Pull with her Ripcord, whispers echoing at the edge of her mind as she awoke in a war clone.

She fired up a neural datalink and engaged her retinal implants. A path to her dropship was superimposed against the floor as a dashed orange line. On the left of her field of view were her loadout options, tailored to suit her particular fighting style. To the right were possible Titan builds. At the bottom were didact and upgrade options, useful for the life of a single war clone. She'd readied an Amped C.A.R.—the Combat Advanced Round submachine gun she preferred; an Amped Archer, a powerful anti-Titan missile launcher, and a prosthetic legs surgical upgrade for one clone—she wasn't entirely sure she'd need that one, but it was just in case.

Dismissing the loadout information as she walked purposely towards the dropship bay, she brought up the information on the Militia fleet, notably the ships, their load, and armament. Known kill tallies as well, where possible. Only a handful of those ships had any records pertaining to naval engagements. A lot of fuel tenders—just like the terrorist strike at Outpost 084—but all empty based on thrust profiles. Then a lot of oddball small and medium vessels, very few with any registered armament. Fewer still that had naval grade weapons. Flicking her eyes around the AR interface, she brought up more detailed dossiers on some of those ships. The files had been redacted. She tried a different tack.

Three heavy landers led the fleet, but only one was even close to being a match for the _Sentinel_. Her thoughts turned suspicious. _Something doesn't add up._ The Militia's heavy landers had ample Titan fabrication ability, and a swathe of heavy AEGIS weapons to cover smaller ships in close. Heavy naval weaponry—above that registered for their class—seemed to be a more recent addition. She tried to access the armament profiles for the smaller ships. Another redacted file. She was suddenly very glad war clones had implants hardened against E-war infiltration. The IMC was actively hiding something about the fleet they were pursuing.

 _Why is the IMC sending the entire_ Sentinel _task force after so many light ships?_ Elsa frowned, dismissing the redacted files to get the fleet overview once again. Her neural hardware ran the calculations in primary mode. Assuming full load, the known tenders could supply that sized fleet for only a month, maybe six weeks at the outside. Heavy freighters might have parts for six months or six days—and mass estimates leaned towards the latter. The Militia fleet had been running for a long time. Something was wrong, very wrong, with the IMC's dogged pursuit.

The Militia would engage in battle, losing resources on the ground, but their fleet continually grew, adding a handful of ships after each engagement, running deeper into Frontier territory. They had been fighting so long now that she'd almost treated the whole thing as routine, but this one felt… _different_. A sinking feeling in her gut, Elsa called up the known Militia fleet roster from previous engagements. Even that file was redacted. _What the fuck is going on?_

One key reason she had stayed with the IMC was their usually transparent policies—but now, actually trying to investigate the mission, she was having second thoughts about that supposedly august corporation. Was it possible the conflict was being extended for profit? Using the Militia as today's boogeyman? _And exactly who gets the most from such a_ —she stopped, noticing the logo on the patrol Titan in the dropship bay.

Hammond Robotics.

Everything—very nearly every single labour saving device, item of consumer electronics, and military asset on the Frontier had been provided by one company. Hell, they had even funded the goddamned colonization effort. _And for an arms manufacturer, the best way to make money is to keep fighting_. Elsa shivered, climbing into the dropship next to Laski's war clone, his Kraber AP sniper braced upright against the deck. _How much longer can Hammond keep up the charade? And aren't they the ones writing the IMC's paychecks?_

Elsa quietly offlined all those programs, bringing up the combat interface. She wasn't about to forget what she'd just learned—now she just had to make sure she didn't wind up in an earlier backup that hadn't had that revelation. She shook her head. She couldn't take that risk. Instead, she signalled her Ripcord to record her current state of mind and memories as the next backup, propagating to every clone she had—including off-site backups. She fervently hoped Spyglass would put it down to simple nerves after her nightmare last night. After all, it was fairly common for Pilots to verify the integrity of their backups before battle.

* * *

Annalise Corazon looked forlornly around her dimly lit cabin—this was home. It had been for the past four years. _Or is it five now?_ They'd been on the run so long she'd lost track. And now, for want of a better word, it was dying. The old Annapolis class supertanker had been heavily converted, rebuilt almost from the superstructure out as a Titan lander, and it rivalled even the IMC Supercarriers in capacity. Now though, it was running so dangerously low on fuel that every non-vital system was offline, and several less vital systems were on standby. Only the Titan hangars and clone bay maintained full power. She patted the walls of the ship—it was a good ship still.

It had been a noble ship before they'd been branded as terrorists by the IMC. Outpost 084 had been a massive propaganda victory for the IMC, painted as a terrorist strike rather than a rescue gone horribly wrong. Thousands had died. Most people in the Frontier Militia knew at least some of the story. MCOR teams had infiltrated the place, and found all number of horrors, not the least of which was weapons research being carried out on live subjects—detainees from Frontier colonies. There was a black ops naval research lab as well—so black even the IMC didn't have clearance to enter. All anyone knew was that it had something to do with the fuelling facilities at Demeter, and the massive jumpgates linked to them.

The decision to use fire-ships hadn't been made lightly. General Anderson had carefully considered every option at his disposal. Two older Annapolis hulls had been packed with explosives. A third had been loaded with decoys and E-war gear. Inside it had been heavily armoured, and converted to carry hundreds of passengers—the detainees and the MCOR operatives. In the end that had amounted to nothing, the entire outpost destroyed in what was later confirmed as an anti-matter detonation. The IMC had managed to spin it that the fire-ships had been a distraction to allow the third, AM-laden tanker past the defense batteries.

Thousands had died, and everyone blamed the Militia. That was the spark that had started the war, tensions already running high with the IMC's mistreatment of colonists and Frontier settlers. Sympathizers stole what they could from IMC hangars and warehouses, and sabotaged what they couldn't carry. The first few months had been utter chaos on both sides. Now it looked like fate had finally caught up with the Militia. Out of fuel, out of options, the civilian fleet pursued just as relentlessly as the First Militia fleet itself; Anna knew that this coming raid would mark the end of the Militia as an effective force. Without fuel, they couldn't do anything. General Anderson had impressed that upon them time and time again in his briefings.

And now Anderson was dead, a heart-attack brought on by extreme stress. That left only Bish and Sarah in charge, and they hadn't led any large scale operations before. Untried, unproven—but Sarah had led a lot of smaller MCOR raids for Anderson, and Bish had never failed as a datasphere/tactical advisor to Pilots on the ground. Anna was willing to trust them. Whether or not they could be as successful as General Anderson at directing the Militia's overall efforts remained to be seen. They were still pursuing his policy of making fuel the number one priority.

Lying in her bunk, stripped to the waist, Anna activated a manual Pull on her Ripcord. She fell several inches to the ground, enhanced reflexes landing her in a tight crouch. Checking the integrity of her neural implants, she pulled on a helmet, rapping the side for good luck. All the AR displays registered full functionality. Flexing her shoulders and tensing her legs, she took a quick step forward, activating the cloaking system. Her hand was flat and transparent. She placed it against a Spitfire in the rack. The weapon turned transparent, nano-coating responding to her touch. Slinging the LMG across her back, Anna holstered an RE-45 autopistol, slinging several satchel charges around her ordnance belt. Slung under the Spitfire was a Sidewinder anti-Titan launcher, loaded with micromissiles.

Ready at last, she stepped out of the clone bay and into the main corridor of the _Freedom_. She looked at the mission timer, breaking into a jog, then a run. Sprinting, Anna slipped on one of the many, many slick patches of—well, something she couldn't quite identify. With her war clone's enhanced reflexes she turned the slide into a roll, coming up into a crouch before continuing her sprint. It didn't take long to reach the dropship bay in the aft section of the _Freedom's_ port tine. Skirting around a patrol Titan, Anna sprinted for the Crow resting on the deck, planting her foot against the lower hatch coaming and climbing inside. The entire dropship filled with the whine of engines spooling up to maximum. _Time to go_.

The Crow slid through the containment field and into the void. Anna looked back at the _Freedom_ , hoping it wouldn't be the last time she saw the ship. They weren't just fighting to get fuel, they were fighting to keep their home alive. Anna racked the bolt on her Spitfire. Anyone that tried to take her home would have to go through _her_. She smiled a savage grin beneath the helmet. _Let them try_. A sudden whine filled the cabin, Bish and Sarah bracing themselves near the cockpit. Everything turned white with the distinctive whip-whumpf of a trans-atmospheric jump.


	2. The Refueling Raid

The hatch on the Goblin dropship's port side opened, and Elsa got her first look at the facility codenamed 'Fracture'. Whoever decided on that name had a terrific lack of imagination, the cracked and distorted landscape aside. Running roughly east-west down the main axis of the facility was a strip of aged tarmac, rusted out cars still parked on the edge in some places. The easternmost end of the AO contained a shattered building that her AR display tagged as an art gallery. Part of the angled roof had caved in, and the main doors were clearly gone. A heavy AA turret looked like it had been hastily built through the roof, near the rear entrance.

Closer, immediately below the dropship, was a single hardened building, a security bunker of some kind. Billboards covered part of the roof, but Elsa knew the AA turret would have no trouble chewing through those. The bunker itself had been buried, but seismic shifts had exposed the southern face, and something had torn it open, exposing the vulnerable systems inside. As their dropship circled around the bunker, tagged as hardpoint Bravo by her AR display, Graves began to speak.

"In space, fuel is life, and the Militia Fleet is running low." Graves had to shout to be heard over the whine of the Goblin's engines. "Only seven planets in the Yuma system can replenish a fleet of that size. This is one of them. We've set up turrets, like this one, just in case the Milita decide to pay this site a visit."

"That's Charlie," Graves motioned towards the AA turret over the gallery in the distance, then waved towards the AA turret over the bunker. "This one's Bravo."

"Vice Admiral Graves, Zulu Three shows multiple jump signatures three klicks out," the dropship pilot's voice cut across the intercom. Three Militia Crows jumped in so close the jump wake threw the Goblin sideways. _That's a hell of a lot closer than three klicks_. Elsa watched as the dropships tracked towards the gallery, lift engines firing up so they could hover in place. The AA turret turned slowly, autoloader whining—then it shut down completely. The Militia hacker had to be on one of those dropships. Graves's response was immediate, the Goblin slewing around as Grunts ziplined from the trailing Crow.

"Blisk, tell Riggs to get his squad on the deck—now."

It took only seconds for the Goblin to complete its circuit, hovering beside the maintenance facility tagged as hardpoint Alpha. Another Goblin, stripped for parts, rested on the landing pad atop the building. Elsa threw herself from the dropship, jump kit cushioning her fall with a blast of thrust. She looked up. All around Militia ships were jumping in, lining up on the heavy fuelling links rising from the shattered ground. Two Birmingham class cruisers jumped in beyond Charlie. A massive Annapolis class supertanker followed them.

Duke Laski hit the dirt beside Elsa, promising something new and interesting from his Kraber. But Laski was always going on about improvements to his Kraber, despite the fact it was standard IMC issue. Combat losses ensured bespoke weapons were a thing of the past. Or maybe he had finally taken her advice and configured it for close support. Elsa didn't bother answering, watching Captain Riggs booting his Atlas Titan as she sprinted past. The captain curled into a ball as the Titan's massive hand lifted and deposited him in its cockpit, armoured panels sealing with a soft hiss around him.

"Sir, our forces have assembled at rally point Alpha," Blisk's voice echoed over the tactical channel, his heavy Afrikaans accent still audible despite the distortion.

Behind the Pilots Graves stood in the open hatch of the slowly ascending Goblin, imploring them to fight for more than just a pay check. "Pilots, today you have a chance to establish peace on the Frontier. Make it count!"

Feet pounding against the shattered service road, sprinting towards the broken up residential building that served as the link between the bunker at Bravo and the maintenance facility at Alpha, Elsa jumped towards a generator stack. Her jump kit fired to boost her those final inches to land on top of it instead of slam into the edge. She jumped again, running through the missing doors on the upper level then jumped left, feet hitting the reinforced panels holding up the remainder of the wall. Her jump kit put out a constant thrust, ensuring that running against the wall was just as natural as running on level ground.

It also gave her a speed boost, and as she leapt from left to right, feet pounding the opposite wall, she was scanning the rubble of the lower floor for possible targets before setting her target on the jagged edge of roof in front of her. Jump. Thrust. She cleared the edge by a meter, and her feet had barely touched the ground when she fired her jump kit again, bounding forward and gaining momentum as she sailed well clear of the far edge of the roof, falling towards the northern entrance to Bravo.

The fall would have severely injured any normal human—but Elsa wasn't a normal human at this point. Her consciousness rode in a war clone, grown to be stronger, faster, and more resilient than the very best soldier in any former military. Then that clone was equipped with armour. Over that armour sat a jump kit. The jump kit fired a half second before impact, slowing Elsa's fall just enough that she suffered no damage other than some lost momentum, then she was through the door and into the bunker at Bravo, moving swiftly down the western corridor, gun sweeping for targets.

A Militia Pilot leapt clear of the wooden stairs on the east side of Bravo, landing in the alcove there as Elsa swept round the control console, firing an instant after identifying the target. Two Hemlok rounds clipped her left arm, throwing off her aim, and a third punched clean through her left side, her vision shading red as the war clone's nanites struggled to repair the damage. She rolled forward, hitting stim, finger still on the trigger as the Militia Pilot leaned out for a second shot. That Pilot fell, riddled with bullets, as the boosted nanite and adrenaline rush from the stim system cleared Elsa's vision and knitted torn flesh back together.

It couldn't do anything about the holes punched through her armour and fatigues, but those were even more expendable than her current body. Blisk's voice crackled over the tactical channel as the AA turret overhead began to thunder away at the closest target.

"Good work Pilots. The turret's online for Bravo, and the _Redeye_ is taking some heavy damage."

* * *

Seconds after jumping in, her ship's wake turbulence rocking inbound IMC dropships, Anna flicked open a detailed version of the tactical map. The location had been codenamed Fracture by some genius that had seen what fracking did to the local landscape. All the IMC had cared about was the fuel reserves underneath, not the residents above. They'd dropped their mining crew in, forcibly moved the civilian populace—a large number of deaths had been 'unavoidable accidents'—and stripped it bare. Still, they hadn't completely emptied those natural reservoirs. There were three key pumping stations that they would need to take control of.

Sarah strode to the rear hatch, past Bish, his commset on and tablet active. He was already hacking the IMC's control protocols, shutting down the AA turrets. He spoke, not bothering to turn away from the screen.

"The civilian fleet's right behind us. Most of those ships are running on fumes right now." It wasn't just them, Anna knew. Even the military ships, the freighters, and the pride of the fleet herself, the _Freedom_. They were all running on their last reserves.

Sarah yanked the 'hatch open' lever, her voice determined. "We're out of options. It's now or never." She turned back to face the assembled Pilots. "Either way we need this fuel, or none of us are gonna make it. The fleet's counting on you! Go! Go! Go!"

By the second 'go' Anna had already leapt from the dropship, landing in a crouch before bringing up her Spitfire LMG. Beside her Kristoff slung his Longbow across his back, drawing his sidearm as he dashed away. They all knew the stakes. Win, and they would have fuel to continue their evacuation. Lose, and there was nowhere to go. The IMC would slaughter them to a man. They couldn't lose. Not this time.

Anna sprinted into the building tagged as Hardpoint Charlie, her datalink giving Bish access to the local controls. With Kristoff and two other Pilots passing through it took only seconds to activate the refuelling pumps. Captain Dunnam thumped past in his Atlas, an IMC Titan appearing just around a bend at the far end of the road. Inaccurate chaingun rounds chipped asphalt beside Anna, and she rolled sideways, ducking into a door in the side of the hilltop. Inside a pair of IMC Grunts had laid out a Militia Grunt, shooting him while he struggled to rise.

The Spitfire in her hands kicked and roared like a wild beast, its recoil settling after half a dozen rounds or so. There was nothing left of the IMC Grunts but chunks of meat and shreds of tattered cloth. Anna smiled. There was a particular satisfaction to using what was supposedly an anti-Titan weapon in an anti-personnel role. Activating her cloak, Anna sprinted from the far door of her building into one of the western entrances for Bravo, the turret thundering away overhead as she ran past several consoles looking for an access. A narrow panelled corridor, old paintings and building materials piled against the wall at the end. Beyond that, the terminal.

Her cloak running out, Anna heard the alert as she became visible again, raising her weapon and sweeping forward. There were odd mechanical sounds coming from around the terminal that had nothing to do with the AA turret's autoloader mechanism. They looked like Marvins, but painted black. Her finger was already squeezing the trigger as she registered they were all holding R-97 Compact SMGs. The thunderous report of the Spitfire drowned out everything and left her ears ringing for a split second when the belt ran dry.

Whatever they were, they could take a hell of a lot of punishment before going down. Bish started to say something over the tactical channel as she was reloading, but Anna ignored it, throwing a satchel against the main support behind the stairs, and just over the railing at the top of the stairs. The grenade danger alert flared on her AR HUD, but before she could respond the world erupted in fire and chaos. The arc grenade had set off her charges right on top of her. There wouldn't have been enough left to fill a matchbox.

For an instant Anna hung outside of time, the Ripcord Pull traveling at superluminal speed to the clone bay on the _Freedom_ , high above the battlefield. There was a snap, a fractional second of dislocation, and suddenly she was dropping to the floor of the clone bay, fully dressed and kitted for war. She swore softly about volatile fusing, then armed herself with the exact same weapons as before. There was no need to change role yet, and Olaf, her Titan, was not yet built. The AI was queued, but the frame itself was incomplete.

 _In time_. She promised her mount.

Then, weapons ready, and combat displays springing to life, she sprinted through the warpfall conduit at the far end of the clone bay. She was a Pilot. Death itself could not stop her.

* * *

Elsa sprinted for the edge of the roof, jumping sideways, planting her feet against the back of an old billboard. Her jump kit fired, and an instant later she leapt from the board, sailing to the collapsed building just west of Charlie. Another burst from her jump kit and she landed feet-first on the roof, one foot skidding against a patch of loose stucco. She dropped to a crouch, then sprang over the hole where the rest of the roof had once lain.

Sprinting, Elsa launched herself from the roof, rolling with the impact as she hit the grassy hillside below, immediately continuing to move on Hardpoint Charlie. She slung an arc grenade, bouncing it from the far inside wall of the building, her display lighting up with probable kills against Militia Grunts attempting to hold the terminal. _Like they have a chance against Pilots_. There was a short wall behind the main terminal, and she ran along it, slamming her dataknife into the wall at the far end.

She hung just below a roof entrance, and over a large hole into the maintenance level. Her right hand held tight around the dataknife while her left swept the C.A.R. back and forth across the building's interior. Nothing. Despite their early success, the Militia seemed to be losing ground in this battle.

"We just lost Alpha!" Blisk's voice crackled over the tactical channel.

Elsa sprinted from Charlie, across the road. Maybe the Militia weren't as hard pressed as she'd thought. Exposed by seismic activity of one kind or another, massive stormwater pipes ran in a disjointed line up the road and into the face of the cliff to the north. It was these that Elsa ran for. Ran faster when a DMR round sprayed her with chips of stone and dirt only centimetres away. She slid into the first of the pipes as a second round slammed into the concrete, stress cracks showing along the top of the pipe. A third round punched clean through, but by that time she was already gone, stim-sprinting through the pipe network inside the cliff.

A thunderous report echoed between the cliffs as a Kraber was fired nearby. Two seconds later another report echoed out.

"Hah, that got him." Laski was congratulating himself.

"Cover Alpha, I'm going in."

There was no reply, but in front of her Elsa saw a Militia Grunt stagger sideways before collapsing in a bloody heap. A crow swooped in overhead, hovering over the refuelling cradle south-east of Alpha. The Militia wanted fuel, and they were getting it. Further to the east, hovering over the sub-orbital link, and currently being pounded by the AA turrets from both Bravo and Charlie, was a brick-ship. It was tagged as the _Redeye_ , and was so old it actually pre-dated the Frontier era. Elsa closed the AR window with a flash of eye movement, and ran through the eastern lobby into Alpha. The back half of the building had been a studio, three mezzanine levels with an open skylight.

The terminal sat in the other half of the building, and around it crouched a trio of Spectres. Black, skeletal robots armed with R-97's, and based off the Spyglass frame. And apparently already subverted by the Militia. Hitting stim, Elsa flew forward, unleashing a beautiful snap-kick enhanced by her jump kit's thrust. One Spectre folded in half, its frame shattered and its main trunk sparking intermittently. Half a mag of C.A.R. dealt with the second. A sharp pain sent her staggering forward, and Elsa's vision shaded into the deepest red. Nanites surged through her bloodstream, attempting to repair catastrophic damage.

The Spectre's R-97 cleared and fired again, and Elsa's body fell in a ragged heap.

An instant of dislocation, and a whisper beyond time: Elsa. Her father's voice. Her new eyes opened, AR display running a diagnostic through her wetware. In a low crouch the pedestal lifted her into the armoury above the clone bay. She looked at the Amped weapons she had selected earlier. No Titans yet, but it was definitely heating up down there. She pulled the Amped C.A.R. from the rack, then loaded up on magazines. Pistol. Archer. Arc Grenades. She hit the drop signal on her fatigues. A green-white glow surrounded her for a second. She was gone.

The warpfall conduit deployed her next to Bravo, beneath the fuelling cradle west of it. The cliff behind offered good cover. All three Hardpoints now displayed in blue on her AR interface. The IMC was starting to lock down the field. Bravo began to flash as she ran for the end blasted open by an earlier conflict. AA fire from the turret overhead was already slackening, and a little further away came the whip-whumpf of an atmospheric jump. An arc grenade sailed over the terminal and down the corridor to the left. No telltales flashed up.

Something flared on the central support, opposite the stairs. Jump kit thrusters. A dark rectangle flew out and she rolled backwards, the satchel falling short and detonating against the terminal, rubble raining from the roof. At that distance the blast had been survivable.

Just.

The Militia Pilot decloaked, falling from the wall, struggling to control the kick of her Spitfire with both hands. Elsa hit stim, racing past, impacts gouging great chunks out of the veneered floor. Chips of stone and powdered concrete covered her gear as she ran up the wall, two feet above each step. She crouched sideways, held for an instant by her jump kit, then launched sideways, Amped C.A.R. already swinging into line above the other Pilot. A stray round caught her in the shin as two rounds punched through the Militia Pilot. Another round caught her in the thigh. Three more rounds into the enemy Pilot's arm. Instinctively swinging the dataknife for the far support pillar as her jump kit fired again. Two more Spitfire rounds chased her across the ceiling. Five more rounds slammed into the other Pilot's back.

Elsa blinked away the red shading her vision. The Militia Pilot lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. Already, she knew, that Pilot would be in close orbit, on one of the larger ships. Seconds later and she would be in the fray once more. Live. Fight. Die. Live again. That was what it meant to be a Pilot. Elsa dropped from the wall, crouching to absorb the slight impact. A message from Spyglass sounded over her private channel. No emotion. Just smooth, impersonal tones.

"Your Titan is ready to drop. Signal when ready."

Her AR HUD flashing up, Elsa designated a point just outside the eastern entrance to Bravo. In the _Sentinel_ above, a single drop cradle released its payload. A countdown displayed in the corner of her view as Elsa launched herself up the back wall, vaulting the railing. Five. A basso rumble filled the sky. Four. Elsa rolled sideways, coming up in a crouch, covering the door. Three. Explosive bolts fired, their report lost in the roar above. The remainder of the heat shield tumbled earthward. Two. The Ogre fell from the sky, AI bracing for impact. One. The heavy Titan slammed into the ground with tooth-rattling force. Dirt and debris rained down as the dome shield sprang to life.

Only designed to stop high-velocity impacts, Elsa passed through the shield unhindered, grabbing the rail on the side of the open cockpit. A quick burst of thrust slammed her into the Pilot's seat while her free hand pulled the hatch closed. It took less than three seconds for the Ogre class Titan's interface systems to boot, but its motive controls were already online, unslinging the Plasma Railgun clamped to its back.

"AI Offline. Pilot mode engaged." Her Titan's voice was a deep, synthetic rumble. It sounded much more like an AI than Spyglass. She liked it better that way—especially after it had taken to the nickname she had granted it: Marshmallow.

Hardpoint Charlie's telltale flashed for attention—the Militia were attempting to hack it again. Elsa turned her Titan to the right, each footfall shaking the nearby buildings. She pushed both sticks full forward, and the Ogre lowered its railgun, breaking into a ponderous run towards the gallery, and Charlie. Hitting top speed she turned right again, sliding left. A quick flick of the controls fired the Ogre's dash jets, blasting it further to the left, and bringing an enemy Stryder class Titan into the reticle of her railgun. The railgun had already spun up two charges.

Three.

Chaingun rounds from the Stryder's main weapon began peppering the shields of her Titan. The diagnostic showed moderate damage to the Militia Titan. Elsa swept the reticle for her missiles across the frame of the Stryder, lighting it up. Chaingun rounds began penetrating the half damaged shields of her Titan with alarming regularity. Launch caps blasted from the missile rack on the Ogre's left shoulder. Six missiles slammed into the enemy Titan milliseconds after arming. The Stryder dashed backwards, chaingun still firing.

Her Plasma Railgun now charged to full, Elsa fired. The round punched clean through the Stryder's remaining shields, punched a hole in the front cockpit armour, and fried the shielding around the enemy Titan's powerplant. The Stryder popped smoke, a great white cloud laced with conductive chaff.

"Stryder making its way to Bravo, Stroud," Laski's voice sounded in her ear. At least she knew which way it had gone after abandoning the fight. "Another Stry—"

Laski was abruptly cut off, static crackling across the line. Something massive slammed into the back of Elsa's Titan, and it staggered forward as she rattled around the cockpit despite the webbing. A second impact slammed into the Ogre's shoulder as she turned, detonations crumpling armour down the right arm. She dashed through the continuing detonations of the cluster missile, armour falling to 50% integrity as she bulled her way to the northern end of Charlie. There was nothing there. Disruption static washed over her systems, the scanners breaking down the image into enormously pixellated blocks. She turned again, slower, charging the railgun as she aimed. The new Stryder dashed at an odd angle, charging an arc cannon.

It dashed again the instant Elsa fired, catching the railgun round in the arm instead of the chest. Less damage, but it did throw off the lighter Titan's aim. A trio of multi-target missiles chased it as it dashed left, sprinting up the road between the gallery that held Charlie, and the face of the easternmost cliffs. Elsa turned and sprinted to the north, hoping to cut off the Militia Titan's flanking move. The Stryder never reappeared. Instead, Elsa caught the heavy footsteps of a Pilot landing against the upper hull. The dull echo of a Spitfire was unmistakeable; as was its effect on her Titan's internals.

Something vital gave way under the hail of AP rounds, and the Ogre's armour displayed the warning tape of a doomed Titan. If she ejected inside the building, the core would overload, killing her and the Militia Pilot. If she disembarked that Pilot might drop ordnance, killing only her, or she might manage to get the drop against the other Pilot. Or she could manually initiate the overload, dash out, _then_ eject. Her hands were already flying over the controls, hitting the core overload, firing the dash thrusters at maximum, and yanking on the ejection lever between her legs almost in the same instant.

More through luck than design she missed the large eave overhanging the north side of Charlie. Below she could see the blue glow as her Titan detonated in spectacular fashion, and caught in that same explosion was the Militia Pilot's Stryder. Not an ideal trade, but it did level the playing field.

* * *

Anna cursed loudly. The nuke on that Ogre had just destroyed Olaf, her beloved arc Stryder. Well, one incarnation of him anyway. At least Bish could still hack the system through her war clone's implants, quickly shutting down the turret hammering away at the _Redeye_. The hacking progress on the terminal froze. An IMC Pilot was nearby—most likely the one that had just ejected from the Ogre. There, dropping through the hole in the roof. In her hands was an amped C.A.R.

"You." Anna frowned beneath her visor, slinging a satchel charge towards the enemy Pilot. The satchel clipped the top of a half-collapsed wall and stuck fast. The detonation caught the IMC Pilot mid-flight, slamming her lifeless body against the back wall of the corridor running west of the terminal. Anna smiled. "That's for blowing up Olaf."

Bish's voice crackled over the tactical channel. "We've just taken Charlie, but things aren't looking good; the _Redeye's_ down to 75% hull integrity, and we have less than half the fuel we need."

Jumping down a hole in the floor, Anna ran through the corridors beneath Charlie, exiting on the western side of the building, opposite the bunker built into the hill between her and Bravo. A quick check seemed clear, and she sprinted into the bunker, drawing her autopistol as she ran. She paused for a second, seeing one of the new, black, armed Marvins. It took almost every round in her autopistol's magazine to kill the thing. Ahead, past the scrap she had made of the combat robot, Anna could see an entrance to Bravo.

Hitting cloak she sprinted across the gap between the bunkers, unnoticed, it seemed, by all. Until an IMC Grunt shouted a warning to his squad. Simple though their minds were, Grunts were still capable combatants, sometimes even against unwary Pilots. Anna sprayed the trio at point blank with her sidearm, autopistol bullets overpenetrating and chipping the concrete floor and walls. Sliding a fresh magazine home, Anna vaulted the railing at the top of the stairs, and through her implants Bish started the hack.

"You've got two coming in, looks like western corridor," Kristoff's voice sounded over her private channel as she holstered her RE-45 autopistol and unslung the Spitfire LMG from across her back.

"Thanks." She was moving before she'd finished the word, slinging her last satchel towards the end of the western corridor she could see from the base of the stairs. One round chipped stone next to the satchel, and two more slammed into it, detonating it before she could trigger it. Two IMC Pilots rounded the corner, contesting Bish's hack. One was armed with a G2A4 rifle, already firing at her. The other was armed with a only a Smart Pistol. Anna fired at that Pilot first, The initial muzzle climb enormously hard to counteract. The Smart Pistolier was dead before he really knew what was going on. Too late Anna saw the grenade danger indicator on her AR HUD, the second IMC Pilot's grenade sailing past her before bouncing off the wall, detonating virtually at her feet.

Dislocation between time and space filled her entire being for an instant, new eyes opening within the _Freedom's_ clone bay. This time she took more careful stock of the situation. The IMC led the battle, but not by much. The Militia had claimed maybe thirty percent of the fuel they required to keep the fleet going—but the total was dropping disturbingly fast as IMC strike frigates engaged the lead elements of the First Militia Fleet as they made planetfall for that vital fuel. It was time to put the pressure back on the IMC. Picking up a nanoforge formatted for satchel charges, Anna smiled. With a steady supply of satchels there was a _lot_ of damage she could inflict.

* * *

"Bad luck, Stroud," Duke Laski's voice taunted Elsa over the private channel. This was followed by a sharp crack and a lot of cursing. Elsa almost felt for bad for Laski, problem was, he just asked for it. Every time. He was a decent support Pilot, but his ability to mix things up in open combat was unquestionably terrible. She turned in time to see him leaping from the top of the cliff overlooking most of the area. A stream of tracers chased him down, and it was a lifeless corpse that hit the ground. Then Elsa had a new problem, because the Pilot now on that clifftop was apparently the Militia's support sniper, and he was damned good. Elsa slid down the wall of the building between Alpha and Bravo, a Longbow round punching through the drywall next to her head.

She ran, feet against the wall, throwing herself up and over the roof, hoping the Militia sniper wouldn't be able to track her as she bounced through the shattered rafters and landed on the asphalt strip north of Bravo. A round from the DMR slammed straight through her, pain flaring through her entire body as nanites attempted to repair the damage. She was in the security room north of the Bravo terminal, and had no conscious memory of activating stim or gunning down the Militia Grunt that had blocked her way. All instinct. The reason she trained so hard out of combat. Movement… mobility was life on the modern battlefield.

Sprinting down the narrow hall, Elsa emerged next to the terminal, finding Bravo empty. Nothing. No Grunts, no Spectres, and no Militia Pilots. It took her a second to figure out what was going on. _Crap_. The AR icons for Alpha and Charlie suddenly began flashing for attention, the Militia focusing where the IMC currently wasn't. Laski was still sniping, but the other four Pilots in their strike team were unaccounted for. Three unaccounted for—another female Pilot entering Bravo. Two—Alpha had stopped flashing for attention, but it wasn't recapturing either. The Militia hacker was apparently a match for Spyglass itself.

"Pilots, we've taken the hardpoint, but there are enemies nearby," Blisk's voice echoed over the tactical net, his thick accent still easily recognisable. "Keep it secure."

Elsa flicked the map overlay to full size, getting a better idea of the way the fight was developing. Plenty of red shading around Alpha, and two red chevrons nearby—Militia Titans. The map closed, returning to its normal size in the corner of her field of view. There were still a good thirty seconds until her Titan was ready again, and then she remembered her Decisive Action chit. A snap decision, but she triggered it, moving Marshmallow to the front of the build queue. The Militia had multiple Titans on the field, and they needed to be dealt with immediately. Targeting the outside of Bravo again, the southern end, in the field, Elsa called her Titan.

Falling from orbit, the heavy Ogre Titan slammed into the dirt with tooth-rattling force, shaking the entire bunker complex, dust raining from the ceiling, and plaster flaking from the damaged walls. Elsa sprinted for the dome shield, feeling two impacts against her shoulder before she passed through the barrier. She jumped, grabbing one of the side rails to throw herself against the padding of the cockpit, already enabling full combat mode before she'd pulled the hatch closed. Her Plasma Railgun was already spinning up a round.

A sizzling crack followed the round as it punched through a Spectre, skimmed the top off the terminal, and turned the Militia Pilot on the stairs into a reddish cloud. The round didn't stop there, slamming into the stone behind the stairs, sending chips of pulverised cement flying in all directions. A lucky shot, nothing more. Elsa pulled back on the sticks, Marshmallow slowly standing upright. There were still two Titans to hunt.

Raising the railgun to aim, Elsa stalked around the southeast edge of the bunker complex, scanning the fractured field, the road beyond, and the massive pumping station between her and Alpha. There, due north, between the cliff and the pump generator. An Atlas with a 40mm Cannon. It fired twice, taking out an IMC Pilot attempting to rush in and rodeo it. A pencil thin beam fired from the roof of the maintenance facility at Alpha, the bright orange telltale of a Charge Rifle.

"Exploit that, Stroud," Laski tried to sound imperious. Elsa ignored him, railgun already charged as the Militia Titan swung around, Pilot hunting for whatever had hit it. Marshmallow's targeting software painted the Atlas's reactor in bright red. The railgun round crossed the distance between them in a fraction of a second, punching clean through the enemy Titan's reactor, compromising the shielding. As the Atlas swung back around to deal with this new threat, Elsa was painting it for her multi-target missiles, unloading the entire rack in a single salvo.

The Atlas caught those missiles, and the following railgun round in its Vortex Shield, immediately flinging them back. Elsa raised her left arm instinctively, activating her own Vortex Shield, catching the incoming projectiles. The Militia Titan held out its arm, but the shield failed almost instantly. The Atlas started moving to the right. Elsa shifted her shoulders, and her Titan followed suit, aiming a little further to the right. Half the projectiles from the vortex missed anyway—but only because it sent them out like a shotgun blast.

The grenade danger indicator popped up on her screens, and Elsa saw the Titan scale grenades of a Triple Threat landing just short of her Titan's feet. The blast was still just enough to throw off the aim of her next shot with the Plasma Railgun, punching through the side of a fuel stack and into the cliff face two hundred metres further back instead of slamming into the exposed cockpit of the Militia Atlas in front of her.

"Another Titan is attacking us." The Titan's AI rang in Elsa's ears as a full rocket salvo plastered craters across the hull. "Shields down, recommend regen."

The other Titan engaging her was only a Stryder, and was apparently already quite damaged. Elsa dropped her shoulder and charged, the massive Ogre mimicking her movement and catching the Militia Pilot off guard as a massive steel fist slammed into the cockpit of his Titan, denting the front plate and sending the whole machine reeling back. Elsa followed it up with a quick double-charge railgun shot and as many missiles as her autoloader had managed to place back in the rack. Behind her she heard a distinctive whine, and when she turned she could see the glow coming from the Atlas's damaged reactor. The Pilot had activated her Damage Core ability.

Elsa forced her Ogre into a lumbering sprint towards the Militia Atlas. She set her lips in a grim line. _This is gonna hurt_. A 40mm round slammed into what had been her shields, ripping a great chunk of armour off her Titan's left arm. Two multi-target missiles hit the Atlas in the shoulder, spoiling the aim of its next shot. The third round hit Elsa's Titan center mass, hard enough to check its advance. Then everything happened at once. Just as she fired her dash jets, Elsa saw an Archer missile flying straight towards her—without a lock warning. An arc grenade detonated between the duelling Titans, disruption static arcing between them. Elsa's Ogre virtually rammed the Atlas, the Archer missile slamming into the back of the Militia Titan, throwing them both away from the cliff.

The Atlas was doomed. Instead of just slamming a steel fist into the enemy Titan, Marshmallow ripped off the Atlas's left arm, swinging it like an improvised club, stoving in the cockpit of the Militia Titan and crushing the Pilot within. The wreckage of the Atlas keeled over backwards, magazine lighting off and destroying anything that was left of it. Elsa turned, hunting for the damaged Stryder. Hardpoint Charlie flashed for attention. _There you are_.

Alpha was now glowing a solid blue; Spyglass successfully overcoming the Militia hacker there. Elsa let her eyes wander skyward, taking in the scene as she paused to let her shields regenerate. Overhead dropship contrails crossed the sky as Militia Crows took on fuel from the nearby links, while far overhead, in the northeast, sat the _Redeye_ , drinking fuel from one of the major planetary links. Even further east, well out of the AO, but still somehow controllable from there, sat two colossal Annapolis class supertankers, both taking on fuel faster than the pumps could supply.

Higher still, barely visible, were the trails of fire that marked combat in the upper atmosphere. A lot of them seemed very small. _Fighters?_ She frowned. The fighters would mostly be providing interceptor support over the battlefield. A quick uplink request showed that the IMC had lost only a handful of ships, and those were only the lightest escorts. Militia damage reports were rapidly escalating, but few of the combat ships seemed to be primary targets. Even the _Redeye_ , she suddenly realised, should have been engaged from orbit. _What the_ fuck _is going on here?_

Blisk's voice suddenly cut across the tactical channel. "The _Redeye's_ down to 25% hull integrity. Let's finish her off, eh?"

Elsa felt a chill race down her spine as she approached Charlie. What was Blisk really playing at? Why had Spyglass designated all those small ships as primary targets? _Why can't I trust my CO anymore?_

There were no good answers. Elsa swung her Titan into Charlie and set to work.

* * *

"We've got a slight edge, Pilots," Bish came over the tactical channel as Anna stalked up the stairs in Alpha, Spitfire sweeping past a false wall. "Let's try to maintain it."

"Anything you say," Anna muttered _sotto voce_ , throwing a satchel towards the lower entrance, just past the terminal for this Hardpoint. She'd already dealt with the defenders, leaving a mess of body parts and heavy shell casings on the rooftop. The sniper had seemed very surprised to see a Pilot so close with the Spitfire. The other Pilot didn't even have the time to be surprised, a satchel charge detonating right beneath her as she turned.

It was a close battle, but not one she intended to lose. The Redeye was an important part of the fleet. Old, yes, but valuable as one of the best astronomical survey ships in the entire First Militia Fleet. In _any_ Militia fleet. Anna swept around the mezzanine above the terminal, gun covering both entrances as best as she could. All the action seemed to be around Charlie now, with more Titans on the field.

"Alright Pilots, the pumps for Alpha are online." Bish's voice cut across the tactical channel. "Now we just need Charlie for maximum flow."

Anna ran back down the stairs, out onto the open plain east of Alpha. A handful of Grunts stood no chance of stopping her, and she ignored them as she sprinted and leapt from the edge of low rise in the fractured ground, landing hard on the maintenance platform of a fuelling derrick. Ahead of her lay a great rent between two cliffs, a larger fuelling derrick to the right, and a network of large pipes to the left. The path seemed clear. Running for the pipes she felt chips of stone spall against the back of her uniform. The booming report of a Kraber echoed down from above. She ducked sideways, into a pipe.

"Kristoff."

"A little busy," came a terse reply, the sounds of battle loud over the comm channel, followed by a warning from his Titan's AI. "Calm down, Sven."

Overhead Anna heard the much softer sizzle of a Charge Rifle firing. There would be a way up. Slinging the Spitfire across her back, she drew her RE-45 as she began to move, sprinting up the face of the cliff on her right, jump kit launching her up and over the edge. She turned, briefly consulting her map for the IMC sniper's last known location, then she hit cloak, and sprinted for the edge of the cliff, sailing across the empty space to slam against the far cliff—inches beneath another massive pipe. Feet scrabbling for traction, her jump kit pushed her just a little higher. She grunted with effort, heaving herself past the edge of the pipe before jumping against the back wall of the cliff and then jumping again to land on the small foliage covered platform above.

It was the same sniper from before. Anna smiled, sprinting at full speed, still cloaked. The IMC sniper sailed from the top of the cliff, his spine snapped in half backwards from the force of her kick. Her victory was short lived, a pair of satchel charges detonating almost on top of her.

Anna shook her head, ears ringing as she fell to the floor of the clone bay. She ordered her neural implants to access the BattleROM playback. The scene rendered in as green scan-lines, then resolved into a cross-hatched wireframe before being filled with colour. She watched a reconstruction of the IMC sniper's viewpoint as he fell, kicked from the edge of the cliff. On the clifftop previously primed satchel charges detonated. A dead-man trigger.

"Well, shit." She knew she really should have seen something like that coming. She checked another indicator. Olaf was ready for another drop. She sprinted out of the clone bay, into the construction bay adjacent to it. A fabricator machine was welding the final plates in place on her Titan. Next to it several other machines were rapidly assembling the skeleton and motive systems of an Atlas from rapid fabrication blueprints, materials going in one end, machined parts coming out the other. Several technicians were overseeing the process, and in the control booth at the far end Anna could just make out Sarah's figure leaning over the command console.

Sprinting for her Titan, Anna engaged the remote link, cracking open the cockpit. A running jump, aided by a blast of thrust from her jump kit, threw her against the padding at the back of the cockpit, sliding down until her feet touched the pedals and her hands closed around the sticks. The cockpit closed automatically, screens displaying only shadows. A drop pod was being assembled around her. Around the Titan. It took only seconds to complete, and she felt the lurch as she was launched from the _Freedom's_ Titan bay.

The screens remained dark, but a deep, basso roar seemed to fill the entire space around her. Anna grit her teeth, swallowing hard against a sudden pressure change. The drop pod lurched, rattling and shaking as the heat shield burned away beneath her feet. The screens registered orange light, then black smoke, then the filters resolved the rapidly approaching ground as the drop pod split apart. Anna felt the ground shake as she slammed into it, a final instant of full power thrust making the bone-jarring landing survivable.

* * *

Elsa saw the Stryder landing outside Alpha, still held by the Militia. The Stryder was armed with an Arc Cannon. Elsa wore a grim smile, already charging up a railgun round, looking up the road that ran along the western edge of the AO. The ruined residential building flanked her on the right, while to the left was an open field, a fuel derrick, and a small annex for the ruined building. It was through that gap between the building and the annex that the first Plasma Railgun round flashed, slamming into full force into the Militia Stryder, punching through its front armour and crippling the servos for its left arm. A second round was already charging as she swept her reticle across the enemy Titan, painting it for her multi-target missiles.

The Stryder popped smoke, and through that smoke a cluster missile corkscrewed towards Elsa's Titan. She raised the Ogre's left arm, intending to catch the missile in her Vortex Shield. The cluster missile spiralled up and over the shield, slamming into the overhang above her Titan, showering it with submunitions and chunks of fallen masonry. Elsa cursed, lumbering forward and trying to get a bead on the Stryder.

It was gone.

It wasn't pinging on her map locator either.

A sudden energy surge set her teeth on edge and raised the hairs down the back of her neck. The crack-whoompf of a heavy jump drive firing washed across the battlefield. It was followed by another series of staccato reports of slightly higher pitch and shorter duration.

"We've been defeated. Prepare to evacuate." Blisk sounded more angry than disappointed. Elsa frowned. _Why?_

Arc disruption laced her screens, and when they cleared she could see the Militia Stryder standing between the fuel derrick and the annex. The evac point was outside the maintenance building that served as Alpha, the turret overhead still banging away at the _Redeye_. Elsa launched a quartet of missiles at the enemy Titan, forcing it to duck back, its shot arcing harmlessly through the metal of the derrick. She saw the main pump line disengage from the Redeye, and under that ship weapon emplacements began to emerge. She ran past the annex, dashing sideways. The Stryder tried to intercept her.

Elsa saw the cockpit seal deform and the metal bend as her Titan's fist slammed into it, almost throwing the enemy machine to the edge of the cliff. A quick-charge railgun round kept the Stryder off balance for another crucial second, allowing her Vortex Shield to re-activate. The Arc Cannon shot drained the shield, but otherwise did no damage as Elsa swept her reticle across the enemy Titan, immediately unloading her remaining multi-target missiles. The Stryder dashed at angle, attempting to avoid the missiles. The following missiles managed to turn almost as sharply.

Rocked by repeated impacts, the Militia Titan dashed again, breaking off, only to re-appear behind the annex, Arc Cannon fully charged. Elsa cursed as static laced her screens, cutting off comms. The next thing that the audio sensors picked up was the triple report of a burst-fire 40mm Cannon.

"Stroud, go!" It was Chan, another of the Pilots on the strike team, using her Titan as a shield.

Which would have worked a whole lot better if the Arc Cannon didn't have a nasty habit of chaining to the nearest large metal object. Like another Titan. Elsa grimaced, noting that her Ogre was down to 50% armour. Of course, the Militia Pilot would be expecting them to fall back to the dropship; a dropship only seconds away. Elsa fired a snapshot from the railgun, then rushed the enemy Stryder, already flipping the toggles to overload her Ogre's reactor. The ejection system supercharged her jump kit, launching her skyward. The Stryder immediately dashed back, and Elsa watched the blue-white glow build below her. She threw an arc grenade, turning mid-air, aiming for the maintenance building.

A round from the _Redeye_ shattered the turret, over-penetrated, and tore out a massive chunk of cliff face to the west. The ship's other turrets tracked towards the Goblin dropship hovering above the building. Overhead a flight of Wraith heavy bombers flushed ordnance, contrails arrowing towards the _Redeye_ as the bombers broke hard to port in an attempt to avoid the ship's point defense guns. One Wraith tumbled as it fell, fire and smoke erupting from its starboard engines. The _Redeye_ glowed with blue-white fire, limned by light. The sudden vacuum uprooted trees and ripped up the soil as air rushed in to fill the void. The top of the main fuelling array ended sharply twenty metres lower than before.

Elsa landed just outside Alpha, next to a lonely tree. Barely three seconds had passed since she ejected. Four. Her feet pounded against the dirt, sprinting for the side of the building. She jumped, feet barely touching the wall before she began to run up it, parallel with the stairs. The dropship overhead couldn't wait—she heard the whine of turbines being slammed to full. She reached the top of the building, just short of the dropship. She kicked off just as the ship ship began to rise. Her jump kit fired an instant late and she slammed into the lower hatch coaming, falling back to—

Strong hands grabbed her wrists, pulling her inside as the hatch hissed closed. Laski and Chan. Blisk's voice was playing over the comm, and in the background Elsa could hear the whine of the jump drive spinning down. "Hmph, we didn't even kill half their fleet," was that what he had been angry about? "54 ships destroyed. That's it." By the numbers, maybe. Elsa attempted to access detailed combat records, but found the files redacted. _Why does that bastard seem so bitter?_

Graves's baritone seemed unaffected by comm interference. "How many of those ships were civilian?"

Elsa staggered, sitting down hard on one of the jump seats. The ship lurched as it touched down aboard the _Sentinel_. _Those ships were_ civilian? _What else is the IMC hiding?_

"Today's civilians are tomorrow's Militia. Sir." Blisk was unapologetic. "What do you want me to do? Wait?" Elsa's blood ran cold. Blisk wasn't talking about stopping an insurgency anymore. _He'd kill them all just to… what?_ She had no idea. But another thought was running around in Elsa's head. One far more dangerous to her if it became known. Heading for the armoury, her body was running on autopilot, unloading her kit and stowing her weapons.

Graves's voice cut across the shipboard PA. "Start a search. I want that fleet found."

Elsa sat, alone in the clone bay, activating a manual Pull with her Ripcord. Even back in her real body the thought wouldn't leave her alone.

 _I'm fighting for the wrong side_.


	3. Downtime Decisions

Anna cinched the straps tight around her shoulders as the Crow rocketed skyward. Beside her Kristoff was doing the same, and handful of other ships were draining the last of the fuel from the reserves buried beneath the Fracture installation. Behind her she could hear the subtle whine of a jump drive spooling up, and a familiar tingle ran down her spine as the world blanked in white haze. Something slammed into the dropship with enough force to send it spinning sideways through the void. Heavy impacts rattled the hull as the pilot fought to regain control over the tumbling ship. Something punched through the deck and out the upper bulkhead, atmosphere starting to vent.

Kristoff had already unstrapped himself and lunged for a patch kit, his war clone's enhanced reflexes allowing him to unseal the kit and prep a full patch in less than three seconds, already pressing it against the upper bulkhead. Anna had launched herself towards the hole in the deck, scooping up a second patch as she passed the kit, her own reflexes similarly enhanced. In less than five seconds the Crow was fully patched. Something struck a glancing blow against her helmet, and Anna winced in pain. The ship was still tumbling, thrusters making the whole ship shake as it tried to escape the debris field. Something slammed into the port wing, but even as the ship slewed round Anna could tell they were clear. The tumble settled to a slow roll, and out the porthole she could see the full extent of the debris field.

Only then did Anna realise what was missing. Her voice was barely a whisper as she finally managed to put the pieces together.

"No…"

"The _Redeye_." Kristoff's voice had a dangerous edge to it.

Another voice cut across the tactical channel. "All dropships, this is Bish, we're sending out probes to record what just happened. The IMC won't get away with this."

" _Freedom's_ coming up," the pilot spoke over the intercom. "We're clear in."

As the Crow slipped towards the massive bulk of the _Freedom_ , Anna called up a secondary window in her AR display, playing back the feed from the fleet's probes in realtime. Blackness filled the window, the occasional star a static point in the background. Cherenkov photons backscattered from tachyons, lighting up the window. Anna pulled it into full mode, ignoring the dropship around her as she watched the event unfold. A blue-white haze filled the void, and then, undergoing rapid deceleration, the _Redeye_ hove into view.

Around the Militia ship was the wreckage of the fuelling gantry, treetop canopy, and a single bird—flash frozen. Something flared on the _Redeye's_ port quarter, a blue-white flare washing out the observing optics even at several light minutes. More impacts flared against the ship's hull, and the old colony ship began to break apart. A second later, one final flare—much brighter, and much more destructive. Anna rewound the feed, switching viewpoints to another drone. _Something_ had caused those flares.

Torpedoes.

Launched by the IMC bombers, and close enough to have been caught in the _Redeye's_ jump field. Nothing could have saved the ship, or the fuel it was carrying. The massive explosion played again as the final torpedo, a second late, slammed into the main fuel hold. Bish spoke over the fleet channel, obviously having watched the exact same scene unfold.

"Listen up, people. The good news is that we're still alive. The majority of our fleet survived the raid with enough fuel to run for another month. According to the tactical computers the operation was a success, but we cannot continue to trade human lives for fuel. If anything, we need to recruit _more_ people to our cause, wherever we can find them…"

Anna slammed her fist against the seat. The sudden pain, the anger, she needed an outlet. She activated her Ripcord for a manual Pull, awakening in her normal body. Still in her bunk, and stripped to the waist. Also, cold. Engineering must have taken EC power for the Titan fabricators again. Rolling out of the bunk, Anna reached down and pulled on a tight t-shirt. Then she commed Kristoff to meet her in the gym. Fists clenched, she studied her cabin. The kitbag was there, with the change there, rations there, and water… extra water… _Fuck it. Gym's got dispensers. Doesn't matter if it tastes a million times recycled._

* * *

Elsa looked around her cabin, wishing desperately she could be somewhere—anywhere—else. Especially anywhere not sharing a cabin with Duke Laski. She cursed, _sotto voce_ , and retreated into the shower. If nothing else, she'd bought some time to think—and right now she had a lot of thinking to do. About the war. About the Frontier. About choosing sides. About betraying her friends—or her humanity. And if she did go so far… how? How could she escape? Death would only bring her straight back to the _Sentinel_ , and the IMC.

She reached out to turn the shower on, her fingers slipping against the mixer. Her hands were shaking. _Can I really do this?_ It wasn't just about trying to do the right thing. It was about having to make a choice. She could stay, with everything she knew, and with what small comfort she might have. She clenched her fists, lips set in a grim line. She couldn't stay. Not with what she'd discovered—not with what they weren't _letting_ her discover. There were only so many reasons to hide the data she'd been attempting to access before the battle, and none of them were good.

The shower didn't help, calming neither her nerves or her mind. Her hands still shook slightly as she opened the hatch back into her shared cabin. Laski was gone. She sighed in relief, climbing into the top bunk, retrieving her tablet from its alcove against the wall. Any plan she made would have to be in her mind, no chance to record anything. No chances that they might revive another, earlier, Pull either. So on top of breaking free from the IMC, she also had to sabotage something buried deep within its datasphere. Something supposedly inviolable. Her fingers flew across the screen of her tablet, bringing up tab after tab of information and schematics on a single system.

IMS/Sen/Spyglass»Every known article involving the Ripcord system.  
IMS/Sen/PltStroud»I thought I heard something.  
IMS/Sen/Spyglass»Your cabin is clean. Duke Laski is in the officers' wardroom. Maintenance teams are currently six decks below, replacing old trunking.  
IMS/Sen/PltStroud»During my last Pull.  
IMS/Sen/Spyglass»Query: Possible relation to 'nightmare' incident; Relation to Outpost 084 incident; relation to Rip/C/756/Awakening?  
IMS/Sen/PltStroud»I'm unsure, Spyglass. Is /C/756 when I had to be restored from an off-site backup?  
IMS/Sen/Spyglass»Affirmative. A datastream malfunction resulted in the incomplete personality upload into your cosmetic clone.  
IMS/Sen/PltStroud»Spyglass, cross reference 'voices' and 'Pull' with Ripcord incident logs.  
IMS/Sen/Spyglass»You are searching for non-existent correlations, Pilot Stroud.  
IMS/Sen/PltStroud»No such incidents, at all, since the inception of the Ripcord?  
IMS/Sen/Spyglass»Records held by the _Sentinel_ are notably incomplete. I can request further data after alert status is cleared.  
IMS/Sen/PltStroud»I'll continue my research. Perhaps I can find a connection you missed.  
IMS/Sen/Spyglass»Unlikely, Pilot Stroud. Logic dictates that any such connections have already been made.  
IMS/Sen/PltStroud»Then show me.  
IMS/Sen/Spyglass»The _Sentinel's_ records are incomplete.  
IMS/Sen/PltStroud»Then I'll have to figure it out myself, won't I?  
IMS/Sen/Spyglass»Such conclusions may well be erroneous. The human mind is not reliably logical.  
IMS/Sen/PltStroud»And machines lack intuition.

Elsa closed the messaging window, muting the feed for the next five minutes. The AI would get the message. Intuition it might not have, but Spyglass had at least come to understand certain idiosyncrasies of human behaviour through repeated exposure. Putting those thoughts aside, Elsa continued her research. The Ripcord truly was a revolutionary system, in every sense of the word. More recent even than the Titan Wars; and with an impact no one yet fully understood. After all, it made Pilots functionally immortal. Dependent on special clones, and databanks to ensure integrity, but still, to all intents and purposes, immortal.

It was what made Pilots fearless in battle. It was what made them reckless. It was the very thing made them more than human. A handful of articles speculated about the Ripcord—and Pilots—being not just a technical revolution, but an evolutionary leap for all mankind, taking them into the territory of post-humanism. After all, if war clones could be improved so much, and cosmetic clones made the pinnacle of beauty, how much further could they be pushed before they sought newer bodies. Bodies beyond mere flesh and bone.

For Elsa, it was all too heavy, and none of it was pointing in the direction she needed. At least, not obviously enough. And with Spyglass likely tracking every article she was reading it would be hard to hide such specific searches. Smiling suddenly, Elsa called up the one piece of information freely available to every Pilot—her own Ripcord incident logs. A handful, maybe as many as a dozen. Various reasons noted, but one in particular stood out— _EM-disrupted Pull; Full Backup initiated_.

Keeping up the charade she called up the remaining incident logs, then threw the tablet down in frustration. _I know what to do_. It was risky—so much so that she would be risking suffering true death, with no backups or second chances. She couldn't hack worth a damn, but she could upload a subtly corrupted Pull. Something that wouldn't be detected until far too late. She smiled, then slid Marshmallow's chip into her tablet, calling up the simple command AI.

TTN/MMLW»Pilot mode engaged.  
PLT/Stroud»Heh.  
TTN/MMLW»… … …  
PLT/Stroud»Report status.  
TTN/MMLW»Titan system functionality at 98%. Physical chassis not detected.  
PLT/Stroud»Virtual environment. AI targeting exercise. CQC focus.  
TTN/MMLW»Simulation running. Co-opting bandwidth. Simulation complete. Combat profile updated.  
PLT/Stroud»Upload BattleROM data, Militia Combat Profiles, Yuma Engagement.  
TTN/MMLW»Upload complete. Integrating combat profile data. Further updates?  
PLT/Stroud»Personal Logfile.  
TTN/MMLW»Active.

"We'll make a difference. Even if I'm dead, you'll find a way. Check the combat logs for the usual suspects."

Sighing, Elsa closed the file. This was insurance. In case her plan failed. In case the IMC detected the corrupt Pull. In case she suffered a true death. In case the only thing left behind was Marshmallow's guardian chip. She hated having to be so obscure, but this way Spyglass wouldn't be able to read anything untoward into her statements. It would still look like jitters from the night before. There were so many ways she could fail, and yet…

She looked at her hands. They were still.

* * *

Anna grimaced, her whole back flaring with pain. She was willing to grudgingly admit that Kristoff's throw-slam combo was actually pretty good. She wasn't willing to admit defeat, rolling and squirming to break free before Kristoff could finish a three count. Her rising kick caught him in the stomach, winding him. He staggered back against the ropes, rebounding into a powerful haymaker with all his impressive weight behind it. Anna ducked inside the blow, spinning around and landing an elbow strike against his back.

Then, as he stumbled, she sat on him. He didn't even try to stop her. She sighed, helping him up off the mat.

"Giving up already?"

"Anna, we've been sparring for an _hour_." Kristoff threw his hands up in an exasperated gesture. "How do you still have any energy? I mean seriously, how?"

"Does the word 'Genki' mean anything to you?"

"And this, coming from a woman who refuses to wake up before noon on any day she doesn't have to?"

"Fine," Anna pouted. "Let's get changed then."

"Sure you're not gonna shower first?"

Anna gave her outfit a quick sniff, her nose wrinkling at the smell. She shrugged, heading for the lockers to grab her kitbag before taking a shower. Sitting heavily, finally feeling the toll an hour of sparring had taken on her light frame, Anna reached for her tablet, skimming the latest updates off the net. Nothing spectacular, and their raid in the Yuma system had only just made the news ticker, not even a headline piece. Skirmishes on the Frontier were now so commonplace as to be blasé. With a huff of annoyance she thumbed the tablet off and headed for the showers. Maybe something would change while she was washing her hair.

It didn't. The downtime lasted at least another hour, in which Anna just lay on her bunk, playing mindless games on her tablet. It wasn't even against regs—she couldn't quite summon the energy to rebel against the rules right now. Other things were running through her mind; like how Bish was right about needing more people to support the cause. Or how the IMC had managed to predict so easily that they would hit Yuma—not which planet, but the system in general. There was something unsettling about knowing an AI was in charge on the other side.

All the news reports were fronted by Vice-Admiral Graves, who, Anna had to admit, was fairly charismatic despite being on the wrong side. But the public face of the IMC on the Frontier was not the same as the one that held the power. Almost everyone in the Militia knew that it was Spyglass—Hammond Robotics' fleet AI—that dictated general strategy, and so far the Militia had had to dance to the AI's tune. If there was a way to take the initiative, the Militia hadn't found it. Yet.

Anna powered down her tablet as Sarah's voice cut across the intercom. "Two hours ago, we received this on the distress channel."

A static laced transmission started, with what sounded like muffled gunshots in the background. "What the hell are these things? We're a small colony. We need help."

"Activate the distress beacon now." A second voice.

"They're getting through the door. They're getting through the door!" A different voice again, the final word masked by the shriek of tearing metal. Gunfire echoed through the line, and the transmission cut out.

Sarah spoke again. "The origin of the signal is from a sector which isn't populated. It's not on any chart. There is a chance it could be an IMC trap. That's why we're sending you to check it out first. But if these guys _are_ homesteaders, and we help 'em out, they might just join our cause. Good luck, Pilots. Signing off."

 _Not on_ any _chart?_ Anna smiled. _Let's see an AI predict_ that. It didn't occur to her that Spyglass could have been the architect of the attack.

* * *

Elsa sat on the top bunk, legs dangling over the edge, deciding whether to head for the ship's gym or the mess hall. She tried to distance herself from the fact she'd been party to the slaughter of hundreds—maybe even thousands—of innocent civilians only hours before. _Well done_ , her thoughts were beyond sarcastic. _Make your old man proud by killing half the Frontier. Are you_ happy _now?_ She frowned. In the IMC she'd never been happy. She was a good Pilot—great, even—but she wasn't happy. It was just another job. _Or at least, that's what I kept telling myself_. _After the first time_.

The pain as her spine shattered and her ribs burst outward. The feeling of sudden calm, knowing she was already dead, her organs turned into pulp. The sickening gleam of blood—her blood—dripping from chrome plated knuckles the size of her legs. The rush of darkness. Whispers… whispers in the void that always sounded so much like her father. Light, dislocation, and a sudden drop onto a hard floor, followed by a powerful, retching spasm. The very first time her Ripcord had been activated upon death.

Manual Pulls had nothing on that first, jarring, dislocation; the instants between life and death; the sudden feeling of immortality. Graves's voice sounded over the intercom, breaking Elsa from her sudden recollection.

"All personnel, this is Vice Admiral Graves. As you know, the Militia fleet remains operational in the wake of their refueling raid in the Yuma system, and we have deployed probes to a number of sectors. Spyglass will brief you on the results of the search."

The smooth, artificial tones of Spyglass overlaid the Vice Admiral's final words. "Pilots, I have scanned all possible destinations within jump range of the Yuma system. I have detected life forms in sector Bravo 2-1-7. Militia forces may be hiding there. I recommend an advance team lead by sergeant Blisk investigate with a suitable complement of supporting units."

Graves's response to Spyglass's suggestion was immediate.

"Very well. So ordered. All Pilots, gear up and stand by for deployment. Sergeant Blisk has command on the ground. Good luck, Graves out."

Lying back, hair tied loosely, Elsa wondered if she would ever see the body she was in again. Once she was on the ground there would be no turning back. _Can I really do this?_ She took one last look around her cabin, her thoughts darkly centered on the number of people that might have been in those ships. _I have to—I'm fighting for the wrong side._


End file.
